


The Science of Altruism

by qalliope



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Baby Books, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:13:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qalliope/pseuds/qalliope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all two years of living with Sherlock Holmes, the man has locked his door a grand total of three times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Science of Altruism

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12826.html?thread=69959962#t69959962) on the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme, Part XXI:
> 
>  _Here's something to make you think; what could John possibly say or do to make Sherlock cry? Something doesn't have anything to do with him dying or dumping Sherlock for another._

Sherlock doesn't know, and it is that knowledge alone—not the information itself—that breaks John's heart. Later, he'll wonder what that says about him, but the answer will be simple. These days, the answers always are, and it should scare John. It really should. But it doesn't, and John's not about to pretend it does.

"I love you," John whispers to the wood at his lips. "I love you so goddamn much."

It's four in the afternoon, and Sherlock is asleep in his room. The door is locked, and John doesn't dare enter. He can't. In all two years of living with Sherlock Holmes, the man has locked his door a grand total of three times.

Once, when Sherlock refused to be in the same room as John. He took to masturbating furiously and loathing his absurdly meager amount of self-control. The walls were thin. John put two and two together.

(The first time, John barged through the door and claimed the man right there, in Sherlock's biohazard of a bed, and Sherlock needed a new lock.)

Twice, when Sherlock and John tumbled through the sitting room, sopping wet and smelling of chlorine. He didn't come out for three days, and John resorted to sliding pieces of cheese and slices of bread through the crack at the bottom of the door.

(The second time, John barged through the door and took the man in his arms right there, in Sherlock's biohazard of a bed, and Sherlock needed a new lock.)

Thrice, five hours ago, fresh from New Scotland Yard and free of Lestrade's dead eyes. A couple had been found in a tiny, dilapidated flat. Blood covered the walls, and two-year-old triplets were missing. An hour later, Sherlock stood still in front of three cold bodies propped up against small crates of methamphetamine. Their mother sold her own children's lives for those crates, and John had never seen Sherlock stand like that. Look like that. Sherlock was vacant, standing next to John, and John wanted to shield the man's eyes and take him home, far away, to their biohazard of a bed and whisper words that wouldn't help, not really, because John's touch was all Sherlock needed. (And John knew that well.)

. . . . .

"Someday, I think."

"What?"

"Do keep up."

"Oh, I'm _sorry_ I can't continue a conversation that starts in your head."

"You're forgiven."

"...Right. Well, go on, then."

"Two would be nice."

"Sherlock."

"And we can name them whatever you'd like. You're decent with names."

"...I—Sherlock—"

"I can ask Mycroft about potential—"

"Sherlock!"

"Mm, yes?"

"You want children. You want _children_. With me."

"Of course. You want them as well. Obviously."

"..."

"John?"

"..."

"John. I—I didn't. I thought—"

"I fucking _love you_ , Sherlock Holmes."

. . . . .

John presses his lips further into the wood of Sherlock's door and shudders. Lestrade had sent them home soon after the triplets were found, and John half-carried Sherlock home.

That was five hours ago, and now John's mobile is dangling in one hand, seven missed calls flashing on the screen.

Sherlock doesn't know. There's no way; his phone and laptop are in the kitchen. Even _his_ brilliant mind can't function through walls and wallpaper and shitty phone reception and dull, lifeless voices and—

John can't do this.

(The third time, John slumped against Sherlock's door and waited seven long, torturous hours. Sherlock didn't need a new lock.)

"John?" Sherlock mumbles. It's pitch-dark and John is sore. He stays where he is and looks up at Sherlock's sleep-creased face with mournful eyes.

"He's dead."

It's a croak, and John isn't even sure he formed the words correctly.

Sherlock stares down at John. Stares. Blinks. Inhales, once.

Drops to the floor, head falling into John's lap.

. . . . .

When John opens his eyes, the sun is coming through the windows, and there is something heavy pressing on his legs.

"Mmf," John says, finding his mobile tucked under his left thigh. Thirty-nine missed calls. It's been an entire night, and no one has sent for them. John would find that strange, but there are more important things to think about.

"Sherlock. God, you're going to break your neck sitting like that. C'mon. Get up."

John knows the other man is awake. He's betting that Sherlock never fell asleep last night. But really, how could he?

It's not until Sherlock shifts in John's lap, just slightly, that John feels it; the entire front side of his shirt is damp, and his left arm is itchy as though he'd dunked it into warm water and let it fall asleep under a heavy weight.

Guilt slams into his gut so suddenly that for a moment, John can't breathe. He gulps at the air, grabbing for Sherlock and pulling him close.

" _Sherlock_. I—I—" But there are no words, really. He'd dropped the bomb last night, let Sherlock fall onto his lap, completely shattered, and promptly _fell asleep_. Sore muscles and lethargy be damned. This is unacceptable. How could he _possibly_ —

"Don't."

John inhales sharply at the sound of Sherlock's voice. It's dull, it's quiet, and it's hoarse from fucking _crying_ all night.

"Sher—"

" _Don't_." 

John nods clumsily and presses his quivering lips to Sherlock's temple. He can't risk looking at his face. Can't bear to see tear tracks and brilliant light eyes gone red from the fruitless rubbing away of tears that kept flowing.

 _Sherlock, this is my fault._

But Sherlock clings to John as if he might vanish if Sherlock loosens his hold. John lets him because he's selfish. Because he knows when Sherlock's brain catches up with him, John won't get to touch him like this anymore.

He deserves it, but he doesn't regret it. Sherlock Holmes is still breathing. Damaged, but breathing. That's all John needed. Sherlock will move on from this. He has to. His work needs him. The Yard needs him.

 _John_ needs him, but after today, Sherlock won't need (want) John.

 

. . . . .

Mycroft leaves everything to Sherlock. At first, John wonders why, but Sherlock glares at him in earnest. John concludes that the Holmes aren't the kindest family in England and leaves it be. 

Anthea simply vanishes two days before the funeral, though John isn't surprised. He hopes that Mycroft set something up for her, but then feels ignorant minutes later; _of course he did_. _She was much more than an assistant, wasn't she?_

Jim Moriarty is dead. While the knowledge would have brought tears of joy and rounds of beer months ago, now it fills John with guilt. He's still living with Sherlock, and he doesn't know _why_. The man knows everything, right from the moment John visited Mycroft in his small office, when the elder Holmes smiled down at John almost kindly, wrinkles tightening around his eyes.

It's John's fault that Moriarty is dead, but it's also his fault that Mycroft is, too.

And yet Sherlock still makes love to him every night. When they finish, more often than not Sherlock's face is wet. John pulls Sherlock close and doesn't speak, and it's enough.

Soon, the guilt is going to eat away at him until nothing's left.

And hell, maybe that's why Sherlock keeps him around.

. . . . .

Sherlock glances up when John moves from the kitchen to the sitting room. He offers Sherlock a steaming mug of tea. The movements are stilted and mechanical.

"Something is wrong."

"Nope."

"So you are imitating a robot for a specific reason?"

John sighs and sinks into his armchair. "Sure."

"You have been behaving this way for a while now," Sherlock observes. He takes a sip of his tea, and his face glows; John knows how to make the perfect cuppa. "Just tell me."

"It's nothing. Just my shoulder acting up. Nothing to psychoanalyse." John is nervous. His left foot twitches every three seconds, and he won't look Sherlock in the eye. He hasn't for nearly a month, in fact.

"Why don't you look at my face when we have sex?"

"Sherlock!" John's ears turn pink and Sherlock grins.

"It's a valid question."

"One I'm not going to answer."

"Do you think of someone else when I fuck you?" Sherlock murmurs.

Now John's angry. " _What_? Is that what you think?"

"No."

"I don't—"

"I like when you look at me as you climax."

"I—I know you do, Sherlock."

"Then why—" Sherlock stops suddenly, nearly dropping his mug. "Oh."

John raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"I should have realised."

"Realised what?"

"I wouldn't say crying is much of a turn on," Sherlock says softly, turning his gaze to the floor. "I apologise."

John goes still and doesn't reply. Sherlock feels cold.

"I've found it's not something I have a firm control over. I can look into it, of course, and see—"

"You're _grieving_ ," John interrupts him quietly. "You don't have control over grieving the loss of your _brother_." His face scrunches up. "You can't just...it doesn't work that way."

Sherlock blinks. "Is that why you think I cry when we have sex?"

John's face is impassive.

"God, I am ignorant," Sherlock says. His eyes burn, and he jumps off the sofa and strides over to John. "Guilt. That's what it is! All of this time I've been trying to...and you think it's _your_ fault."

"Sherlock—"

"John. _John_. You insufferable fool!" And Sherlock grabs him around the waist and hauls him onto his feet. "I believe there are many things to discuss."

John nods because it's better than falling to his knees in front of the man he loves and bawling his eyes out.

. . . . .

"How's your man?" Lestrade asks.

"Oh, Jesus."

"Come on! Can't a man ask after his mate's partner? It's polite, and all that."

John rubs at his eyes in irritation, but Lestrade doesn't miss the smirk.

"He's fine, thanks. After putting me through hell for a month, you know. He's making up for it."

"Fuck, I still don't believe it," Lestrade says, flagging down the bartender. "I would have kicked his sorry arse to the kurb, myself."

"I almost did," John mutters seriously, fiddling with the hem of his jumper. "Here I thought I was responsible for his brother's death, when the bloody git went to Mycroft ages before I even thought of it."

"That's a Holmes for you," Lestrade agrees. He orders another round and taps his beer with John's. "Met Mycroft a few times. Terrifying bastard, let me tell you. Ridiculously devoted, though. Took a bullet for his brother. Literally."

John nods thoughtfully. "He did it for us. I mean, for Sherlock mostly, but. I think he was just waiting for Sherlock to find someone, you know? He didn't give a damn about his job or anything like that. He didn't _want_ to die, but..." He trails off, gazing off into the distance almost reverently. After a few moments, he shakes his head and turns to Lestrade. "He knew if we went after Moriarty by ourselves, one of us would die. Or both of us. He wouldn’t let that happen."

Lestrade nods. He knows that if John were sober he wouldn't tell half of this to him, but he's grateful nonetheless.

" _Anyway_ ," John says, "what about you? Have any lady friends you're not telling me about?"

"Come off it!" Lestrade chuckles. "S'not as though you'd want in on the action, anyway. All those vaginas and such."

"And on that lovely note, Lestrade, I believe it's time for John to go home," Sherlock cuts in sharply, appearing next to John's elbow as if by magic.

Sherlock the crime-fighting wizard.

Oh Christ, he's never going to drink again.

. . . . .

"I couldn't let you get hurt, John. Not again. Mycroft knew that."

"And of course I'm left out of things. Like usual."

"If you thought I was only grieving my loss, it would have been easier for me."

"So you _were_ grieving."

"John, Mycroft was my brother. I don't think I have to answer that question."

"Right. What's the other reason, then?"

"I don't have to answer that question, either."

"Humour me."

"Oh, _fine_. You're here, with me, breathing. Moriarty is stuck in the ground. That's enough to be going on with, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes. Yes, I think so."

. . . . .

"Sarah bought you a book," Sherlock tells him. John groans.

"No, she didn't."

"Yes, she did."

"No, she didn't."

"I'm not playing this game. Let me see it."

"You already _know_ what it is. I don't need to show it to you."

"Visual aids are always helpful, John."

"Nope," John says, pushing Sherlock out of the way and walking into their room (there is no longer a need for a lock). "I'm not giving in this time."

"I know where it is."

"I'm sure you do."

Sherlock huffs and pushes John onto the bed. "I will fuck it out of you if I must."

"Go right ahead." John spreads his legs and gestures to the general area of his penis. "If you must."

"Tell me again why I let you move in?" Sherlock asks, but when John grabs him around the waist, he can't help the strangled giggle that falls out of his mouth.

Two hours and three condoms later (one ended up on Sherlock's big toe, and neither of them know quite how it got there), Sherlock sinks into John's warmth and smiles.

"Did it work?"

"You made me sleepy. And less horny. That's about it."

"Damn," Sherlock murmurs.

"Good try, though."

They lie in companionable silence for a few minutes as their breathing returns to normal. John kicks the duvet off the bed and presses his body close to Sherlock's.

"I've been thinking," John starts.

"Marvelous."

"Shut up, this is important." Miraculously, Sherlock does.

"I've been thinking, you know. Names." He pauses and runs a soothing hand through dark hair. "I mean, the book is nice, and there are thousands of good names in there, but."

"But?"

John breathes through his nose. "I was thinking we could name the boy after Mycroft."

Sherlock tenses, and suddenly John feels like he's said the wrong thing.

"No, wait, forget it. It's a stupid idea. Forget I ever said anything," John says hastily, kissing Sherlock's temple. "It's nothing. We'll just decide on a name from the book."

Sherlock doesn't respond. John worries his lower lip between his teeth. "I'm serious. You can pick out the name yourself, even. I didn't mean to—"

"I'd like that," Sherlock says.

"Okay," John ventures, "Nothing too ridiculous, though. Something—"

"Mycroft Watson-Holmes. Mycroft Holmes-Watson. Mycroft Watson. My brother is rolling around in his grave as we speak."

John peers down at Sherlock's closed eyes. "Really?"

"Well, not literally, John. He's dead."

" _Sherlock_."

He smirks, but nods. "Yes."

Later, John will realise why Sherlock wouldn't open his eyes. Later, John will wake from a nap to find both his chest and Sherlock's eyes damp with tears. Later, John will find Sherlock pouring over the book Sarah bought them, trying to find the perfect name for their to-be baby girl. ("We're not naming her Anthea, John, that sounds like a prostitute's name. My daughter is _not_ going to be a prostitute. If I have my way, she will be so brilliant no filthy little boy will lay a hand on her.")

This time, Sherlock's tears are entirely John Watson's fucking fault.

He doesn't mind.


End file.
